By My Side
by TheBeggarKing
Summary: Marie is taken to Neverland, but on different terms than most. She wants to go, and never expects what she finds there. OC/Pan
1. I believe

_"I believe."_

Her words are lost in darkness and blown away by the wind; the words she whispers every night. Joined with her words are truths and memories of children past, adults past, children present. The wind whisks away secrets and lies and hides them where they'll never be discovered.

For all the secrets, lies, memories, truths, words that you've whispered into the wind end up somewhere. The home for these shadows is Neverland, for that's what shadows are. The memories of your being, the truths, the lies, what holds you together, and what tears you apart. Neverland, for all its beauty and grace, is merely a shadow, merely truths and lies and memories and all things good—all things bad.

Neverland, coincidently, is exactly where a girl named Marie's beliefs went. It is where all children's go, to be heard by one boy; one boy and his shadow.

His name was Peter Pan.

Marie sat at her window that night, like every night, watching the stars. Waiting for her parents to return home was becoming tiresome, every night a night lost to her, just waiting. Waiting her life away, waiting for sleep, waiting for morning, waiting for death.

Her hands traced patterns in the fog surrounding the cool glass. It was November, much too cold for an open window, but she pulled out the metal latch despite the chill, chipping with white paint, out of the window, letting it tip forward into the night. The wind blew into her room, shaking the clothes hanging up on her closet door, awaiting the next morning's routine.

The ninth floor apartment she shared with her mother and her mother's boyfriend was small—a one bedroom, which Marie had somehow inhabited because her mother and boyfriend usually slept on the couch together. It was the smallest room in the apartment, which was incredibly small on its own, but Marie didn't mind. She had grown to accept it. She wasn't happy, but accepting, which was good enough for her.

The words came before she even knew what she was saying.

"_I believe_." She thought of her dreams, especially the reoccurring one she had every night—her toes dug into the sand of a beach, with blue waters that stretched around an island of green trees and vast jungle. Sometimes, when the light was just right, you could see the outline of a ship, dark against the horizon, with huge sails and bells that rang across the water.

She was alone, though. Always alone. Her and her shadow walked the beaches and wished for things, food, water, shelter, but company never came.

"_I believe._" She did, really. Hope for something better; hope that her family would come back together. She loved them dearly, but couldn't they be something more?

She believed in almost anything at that moment, truly, truly believed, and closed her eyes.

Nothing.

That was enough waiting for tonight. She slid off the old chair that was once her mother's sitting by the window and stood up, stretching her sore limbs. She was growing weary of waiting, watching, and all she wanted then was for something to happen. Anything to distract her from the object of death that grew nearer everyday—the object of growing up.

Her lips moved forward to blow out the single candle glowing in the room, but it blew itself out before she could. She stopped in mid-action, feeling a new cold draft blowing against her back and chilling her skin even through the material of her pajamas.

If one could feel a whisper, that is what she felt then upon her hand. A light touch that was so forced but so light, and so, so cold. She didn't want to turn around, fear gripping her heart, the same cold that held her icing her over.

Her head then moved, her body following it, shaking as she anticipated what she would see.

It was a shadow. A black form that seemed to have a hold of her, yet she could barely see where it began and where it ended. Two glowing eyes sat in the place of the head, watching her intently as it held her hand.

It emanated fear, yet Marie was not scared. Everything about this seemed cold and uninviting, but now, staring into these eyes, she could not bring herself to feel fear. Only a strange pity for the being in front of her.

Because though fear projected through the eyes of her captor, there was something else. There was pain. And pain, no matter in what being, was something she couldn't step away from. She cared too much about everything and everyone, she loved too much for her own good. She felt everything too deeply, so much so that perhaps this world was too much for her.

"I believe," she whispered, and grabbed the shadow's other hand. She inhaled deeply, and felt a tug on her arms. She was dragged to the window, and given one last look by the shadow. "Take me," she said, and she flew with the whispers and the lies and the memories that littered the wind like no one else before her had.


	2. Perhaps

She was falling, fast, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The whisper on her hand had long since disappeared, and she dropped faster than she could have thought possible. Marie's stomach flew into her chest as she descended, making it harder to breathe and harder to think.

She cried out for help, but the only thing coming nearer to her was the sandy beach below. Panic churned inside her and she yelled, screamed for someone, yet her words were whisked away in the wind.

Neverland slowly stripped her of her lies and her wrongdoings, her innocence, and everything that made her a child. It took that, and kept it, so for as long as she was there, she would remain young and gay. It took these things for itself, fueling its dwindling life and stealing away her childhood. She could never come back, for she could never be a child again, once she left the island of youth.

One last scream was emitted from Marie's fragile mouth before she stopped falling in midair, the air jerking out of her lungs. Her eyes snapped open, looking around her. It was dark, so dark so that all she could see was the outlines of the trees at the edge of a beach she was a foot away from.

Suddenly she dropped again, falling onto the sand with a quiet thump and sending thin sand flying everywhere. She gasped for breath, coughing and trying to regain air in her lungs. She lay there for a moment longer, her hands fisting the sand beneath her, processing what had happened. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly, and laid her face onto the ground. She tried to stand up, but found it quite difficult work to do so. Though nothing is truly work unless you would rather be doing something else.

The thought snapped her eyes open and she stared around her once more. She needed to get up and explore, try to figure out where she was—but then she realized, she already knew where she was.

Neverland.

Marie was on her feet in an instant, looking around the island she recognized from her dreams. How she didn't instantly remember the smell of the ocean and its roaring waves, the texture of the sand that was like no other was beyond her, and she stared towards the tree line at the edge of the beach. Endless pines and other trees she failed to recognize stood guard as to what lied beyond the safety of the beach, and she felt deep down that in there was not somewhere she wanted to go.

"Hello?" she dared breathe, staring ahead of her. Nothing made a sound, other than the shallow waves that were quieter than she remembered. She was aware that no crickets were peeping, no birds were calling, and there was nothing but the whoosh of the water and the kiss of the breeze on her face.

She was correct—in Neverland, she was always alone.

Marie smiled despite her loneliness, and with that smile followed a giddy laugh. She was no longer home. She was somewhere where she could create a fresh start, be something else, and do other things. No more waiting. She could live now, even if this wasn't Neverland.

The shadow that brought her here was nowhere in sight, bringing her to believe that perhaps it had all been a dream, and maybe this was, too. Or perhaps her past life had been the dream, and she had finally awoken to find where she was meant to be all along.

She grinned with joy, skipping into the water and soaking her red plaid pajama pants. She jumped into the waves, laughing with such happiness, capturing every moment of this into her memory. This couldn't be a dream—no, it felt much too real. Dreams don't allow people to feel numb with the cold water, or to be scratched by the roughness of the sand. This was all real, and her past life, her dream life, began to fade away.

You see, Neverland does that to people. Time is a tricky thing, from the moment they arrive, things anywhere else can seem hazy. Perhaps it was the fact that they were children, and this island played on their innocence wishes for adventure. Perhaps the island wanted to keep the children, so much so that the island itself caused them to forget. For youth in Neverland provided power. And everyone needs power.

Marie rolled onto the sand; effectively covering herself in the thin white grains, laughing loudly like there was no one to hear her. For there wasn't—at least not to her knowledge. She was blissfully alone, and perhaps that's the way it should have been. It would have saved us much pain—it would have saved _them_ much pain. So she continued to play in the sand, much like a small child without cares.

Yet, Marie ceased to forget something so very crucial. While she was keeping a sharp lookout on front, she was gaily unaware of what was creeping up behind her, until she felt the cool metal of a knife, or perhaps a sword, on the back of her neck.

"Come with us, and you won't be harmed."

Perhaps.


	3. Milady

"Why is she here." The question came out as more of a statement than Peter meant it to be, but it got the point across to the shadow. He could feel its cold form next to him, even though it was too dark to fully see anything but its eyes.

"She said the words," replied the shadow, and Peter rolled his eyes and leaned back against a tree.

"That doesn't mean she has a right to be here. This is no place for a girl."

"Pan." The shadow lowered his voice, and Peter stared at the girl in front of him. He could barely see her around the roaring bonfire they were having, but in between each of the dancing lost boys as they passed, he could see her.

Tan skin and pale blonde hair was barely visible in the low light. She had her arms wrapped around herself, sitting beneath a tree and looking around. Though, she didn't seem scared, which confused Peter. She seemed interested, taking in what was happening. She didn't seem aware that anyone was watching her as she smiled lightly at the boys, and Peter could see the reflection of fire in her eyes.

"A girl could be of use to us," said the shadow, breaking Peter's stare. He turned to face the shadow, and it was almost invisible against the backdrop of the night. "More use than twenty boys." Peter frowned, staring into its eyes.

"I want her gone by morning," Peter said, moving forward towards the fire. The shadow made no noise behind him, but Peter could tell it was unhappy.

"Peter, if we do not take her, the—"

"I know," Peter snapped, not turning around to face it again. Anger twisted his features as he thought about ever-threatening fate of Neverland. He stared across the fire again, and the girl was standing up and leaning against a tree, smiling fully at the boys dancing around. One of his boys grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dance, which she happily joined, making Peter's frown deepen.

The shadow hesitated before speaking. "Is this final?"

Peter paused for a moment without answering, and thought about the shadow's proposition. "I'll make my decision in the morning," Peter snapped, a childish anger fueling his actions. He belittled the idea of a girl in Neverland, but until he found the heart of the truest believer, he needed the youthful residents' power. That was the only thing holding the island together. "Just…" he paused, staring at the girl dancing with the boys, emitting a loud yell and a laugh, anc he scoffed. "Just give me the night to make up my mind. But be prepared to take her back before daybreak."

"Of course," said the shadow, and when Peter turned around to add something, it was gone, disappearing faster than the wind. Peter, emotionless, turned back to the fire. He wished it smaller, and the fire kindly obliged, shrinking its size by half. None of the boys seemed to notice, not even the girl, who was dancing in a strange manner, unlike any of the boys had ever danced. Peter didn't know what to think of it, until her dark eyes that reflected the fire like a pool landed on his.

"Stop." The word out of his mouth were quiet, not mumbled, just spoken, such as one would in a private conversation when no one else was around. If it had been anyone else, the word would have been lost in the noise the boys were causing. But he was not a regular boy. Peter Pan was so different than other boys, perhaps because he was the first one to make the island his home, or perhaps it was because of his unfailing will to believe. Peter Pan was a skilled swordsman, at least against the boys, and he was an okay archer, but Peter Pan's greatest weapon was his imagination. Anything he wanted to happen in Neverland, happened. Within magic's limits, of course.

So when he wished for everyone, boys and girl alike, to hear his word, it happened. The noise stopped almost immediately, the clacking of the sticks, the yelling; the merriment of it all. Marie stood stock-still, for she had heard the voice too, yet unlike the lost boys, she didn't know where it was coming from.

Her quick moment of joy since arriving here was interrupted as a boy stepped forward, with shoulders that seemed to large for his skinny frame, and was covered in green clothing that looked cheaply sewn or perhaps, homemade.

"Boys," the boy began, and Marie found it amusing that he would hold himself above the boys she had been dancing with because he was, in fact, shorter than many of them, and still just a boy himself. What gave him the power over all of these people, and what seemed her, as well?

"It has come to my attention that we have a girl on this island." None of the boys made a sound, but the boy next to her and a few others turned their heads toward her and stared. She stared into the eyes of the boy talking, blood rushing to her face at their stares. She wasn't used to being the center of attention, especially in a group of teenage boys.

"_I_ brought her," said a rushed voice that sounded like it was still ongoing puberty. She smirked as a boy a little smaller than her walked forward and stood in front of the haughty boy.

"I do appreciate that," he replied, staring at her. She felt incredibly uneasy under his stare, and felt relieved when he moved it back to the boy. She suddenly didn't feel safe, which bothered her, because her trust was one easy to gain. "But what use is a girl to us?" Marie felt her stomach drop as all the boys' attention became focused on her. The boy directing them all grinned smugly.

The silent pause went on for longer than Marie could fathom, with everyone staring at her, her sense of safety slipping. She regretted calling the shadow that took her here; she regretted ever thinking she could be safe and alone.

"Girls can… sing songs?" muttered one of the boys as an answer to the question, staring at the one in charge.

"Yeah! And they can make food!" Some of the boys grinned at that. While sometimes Peter's imagination was all that kept them alive and well in Neverland, it also meant that they sometimes had to imagine their dinners.

"Tell stories," added another boy, and the one in charge cocked an eyebrow.

"Can she, now?" he asked, and crossed his arms. Marie blinked and stared at him, her eyes wide. She was a good storyteller, so she'd been told, and a better writer. But that had been in front of her family, sometimes her friends—not in front of a group of boys while fighting for her right to be here. She knew whatever story she could spin up, there was no chance that they would keep her there.

The boy walked toward her, the fire guttering out as he stepped over it, and soon he was standing only a foot away from her face. He wasn't taller than her by much, an inch at the most, maybe two, and his boyish features and skinny frame didn't threaten her. His voice, so cold with a contempt that did not match his figure, and Marie found herself in a state of confusion at this boy.

"Let's hear her tell a story, then, shall we?" asked the boy, and there was a cheer of agreement from, sadly, every single boy that occupied the area.

"I… I don't think that's a good idea," said Marie, her voice small and scratchy in the clearing. She cleared her throat and stared back at the boy. He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not a very good storyteller, you see." He let out a chilling laugh, revealing slightly overcrowded teeth that would have looked nice had he had braces in his youth. How a young boy could hold this much power and be so bitter-sounding was beyond her.

"Tell us a story," he said, his jaw clenching. His eyes were dark in the night, but even as she gulped, she stared into them. Something about this boy seemed strange, yet she couldn't put her finger on it. "Or…" he looked around to the boys, grinning at them. "Or what, boys?" He paused, staring with a boyish delight. "What can be her punishment?" A loud chorus of punishments, none of which Marie would have liked to endure, sounded throughout the clearing, which was beginning to take form of more of a camp the longer Marie looked at it.

"Make her walk the plank!" yelled a boy, and the yell was followed by more cheers from the other boys.

The boy in charge turned around to face her, his hands up as if he had nothing to stop them with.

"Girl, you heard what the boys said," the boy laughed at her, causing her to frown. "What is your name," he made a mocking bow, "_milady."_

"M—" Marie paused for a moment, unsure of whether or not to give him her name. After a moment of thought, she realized he couldn't find her when she rid herself of him and this land unless he had her last name. "Marie, is my name."

"Well, Marie," said the boy, smirking at her smugly and distastefully. "You are hereby charged with the order of a story, or sentenced to a death by plank walking," he paused again, looking her straight in the eyes, "by the Lost Boys and Peter Pan _himself_."

**A/N: Sorry for any lack of author's note, I kind of forgot. Just something I wanted to say about the story to clear things up—I know many stories have a very malevolent Peter, and mine is too, yet much more childlike, because that's how the original Peter Pan is, and I want to incorporate some J.M. Barrie up in here. Thank you for making it this far, and yes, it's romantic, so there will be some stuff with Peter and Marie. If **

**If you have any tips or suggestions for my story, my PM box is open, or feel free to leave a review!**

**Points to anyone who can find the J.M. Barrie quotes!**

**Please Enjoy, Wren Love. **


	4. Wherefore Art Thou

"The plank?" Marie asked after a moment of hesitance, turning around. Peter grinned at her, and she looked around expectantly for some sort of plank. Instead, shadowed trees and grass surrounded her, no sign of any sort of "plank" she had to walk.

She was afraid to laugh in front of this boy, afraid of offending him, but there was no plank here, and surely the other boys could see that, too. "I, uh, don't see a plank." She braced herself for the worst, staring at the boy Peter and at his sinister grin. She was known for being polite in social situations, and this should be no exception. Yet it felt different, like she shouldn't have to be so adult-like in front of so many boys.

"Maybe if you looked harder," Peter said condescendingly, "You would see it." He stared her down, searching for a sign of anything other than confusion, but he didn't find it. He narrowed his eyes at her, confusion dawning on him as well. Why the shadow would bring her here he had no idea—she seemed not to believe in what was clearly right in front of her, so her words were not true. If she didn't believe in here, in Neverland, what did she believe in?

"I'm sorry, I don't see anything." She looked at him apologetically, almost pityingly, as if she was sorry for him; sorry that he was seeing things she didn't. He glared at her, suddenly angry again, more at her kind and soft expression than anything else.

"_Look harder_," he spat, his eyes never leaving her face, even as she glanced around in bewilderment.

"Please, there's noth—" Suddenly she paused, staring down beside her. She wanted so badly to believe in him so he wouldn't be angry with her, because for some reason that very thing terrified her, and it always had. Letting people down was something she avoided at all cost, and she even made herself a little rule about it—always be a little kinder than necessary. A little kindness gets you further in life than most people might think.

But as she stared into the ground, she suddenly sensed something she hadn't noticed before. She felt cold, moist air swirling around her, rising up in a way she knew didn't happen naturally. She felt the drop before she looked, but when she fully turned around she saw the deep black pit of an abyss. A small isthmus of crumbling dirt and grass that reached out about five feet was what she was standing on; one she knew could crumble at any moment. Marie's heartbeat escalated and she hurriedly tried to turn, only to be stopped by Peter, who was standing right in front of her. He was smirking at her in a way that made her absolutely sure he wasn't going to let her go easily, or even at all.

"Are you ready to tell us that story now?" he asked smugly, raising an eyebrow. Marie swallowed thickly, her breath coming out in strangled gasps instead of normal breaths. Panic overtook her, like it did whenever she tried to talk or give a speech in front of people she didn't know. The feeling was the same, but the situation different. This was much, much worse.

"Well," she began, trying to even out her voice, which was quite difficult while one was standing above an abyss in a life or most likely death situation. Peter looked at her expectantly, a smirk becoming on his face as he watched her struggle. She frowned at him, but continued on. "What kind of story would you like to hear?" There was a pause, and then many of the younger and some of the older boys began to shout different genres, a few of which she didn't recognize, including 'salt' and 'ten'.

"Boys!" yelled Peter, quieting them quite effectively. He grinned at them, turning his back to Marie and gesturing at her. "Quiet down and show some respect to our new guest." His head turned to look at her so she could see his profile. "We wouldn't want her to feel unwelcome, now would we?" The boys shook their heads, and Peter asked them what type of story they wanted, gathering a happy story with a boy and a girl as their plot of choice.

"Are you ready, Miss Marie?" asked Peter, bowing to her and backing off the plank, leaving her alone on a crumbling piece of dirt about to drop her into a black pit if she didn't deliver a fine story up to the standards of many boys and a particularly smug teenager. But no pressure, of course.

"Yes, in fact I am," she said, her voice wavering, but she held her head high, and swiped her hair out of her face. Thinking of classic tales between a boy and a girl, she told them the only tale she could think of—Romeo and Juliet.

"Our tale starts in fair Verona, with the house Capulet and the house Montague. The two houses were at war with each other, you see, and every chance they got they would fight and death would invariably follow.

"The house Capulet happened to have a young girl, about our age, maybe more, maybe less, named Juliet. She was a stunning beauty, and was betrothed to a man named Paris.

"And then the house of Montague, with a young boy, about our age, maybe more, maybe less, who was named Romeo. He was one of the handsomest in all fair Verona, and was in love with a woman Rosalind, who did not love him the way he loved her."

"Why not?" asked one of the boys, and Marie looked down at him, startled. It was a boy who looked about thirteen, with dark hair and freckles. She thought for a moment that he was too old to be asking such questions, but she replied to him anyways with a sweet smile.

"Because love, though a beautiful thing, is not always returned." The boy smiled at her in response, not fully understanding her response—in fact, none of them really did. The sad thing about Neverland was that love didn't really exist—at least not in the way we might think. There was friendship, there was loyalty, but there wasn't what the heart craved the most—true love. For to love truly was an act of maturity, and Neverland was a land of youth. While youth strengthened Neverland, for whatever reason, love weakened it. So the first memories stolen by the island were those as love, making children feel unwanted and alone, willing to stay and devote themselves to being young and gay and selfish and ignorant for the rest of their lives. To be children forever.

And so Marie continued with her story, shortening it a great length than the original for the sake of time, though leaving in the spots of blood and gore, because if there was anything boys liked, it was blood and gore. She tried not to look at Peter's face during her story, because the one time she did, it was stony and cold and unfeeling.

Finally, the end drew near, though it had truly only been about six minutes. The boys leaned forward as her voice grew quieter, and Romeo ran into the tomb to find Juliet.

"He begged her to be alive, stayed at her side for hours, yet when she never woke from the deep slumber he called death, he drank the potion that drew him into death as well.

"If only he had seen the slight movement of her hand to try to stop him, just seconds before he drank the potion, perhaps the story would have ended well, and Romeo and Juliet would have lived happily ever after. But life, as so often the case, does not end in happily ever after."

"I thought this was a happy story!" yelled one of the boys, but he was silenced when she held up a hand.

"Let me finish." She stared at them, her mouth in a stern line. "When Juliet awoke, only to find Romeo dead on the floor next to her, she took his knife and plunged it through her heart, for a life without Romeo was no life at all, for that of fair Juliet.

"As the deaths of both Romeo of house Montague and Juliet from house Capulet commenced, the houses, in honor of their deaths, ceased their endless fighting, each holding a brilliant and rueful white flag of surrender. At last, all was well in fair Verona." She clapped her hands together and smiled at the boys, signaling the end of her story.

They stared at her in disbelief, their mouths hanging open.

"They're not dead, right?" asked one boy.

"You killed them!" There were shouts among the boys until Marie managed to silence them again.

"I did nothing of the sort, that's only how the story goes."

"You could have changed the story!"

"Then it wouldn't be happy, then, would it?"

"How was that happy!" yelled a boy. "Make her walk the plank!" There was a loud cheering from each of the boys, but Marie stood her ground.

"I do believe we asked for a happy story," asked a boy about Marie's age that was standing in the back, with light brown hair and a short figure.

"It was happy," Marie said knowingly. She had studied this in school, and knew exactly what to say to the boys. She had gotten them on a technicality. "It just depends which way you look at it. There were obstacles in life, preventing them from their love. So perhaps they were reunited in death?" She looked over all of them, confusion clouding their faces, so she went on.

"Their love could live on in a better place than life here on Earth, or even Neverland." She smiled pleasantly. "And it's happy too that both houses stopped fighting, even if many people had to die. At least there was peace." She paused for a moment, looking at each of the boys. She hoped for a look of understanding and appreciation for the old literature, but instead there was still only confusion.

She turned to look at Peter, only to find he wasn't there. For he had flown away, and was circling the island in hopes of forgetting the story and everything else Marie had said. He was happy for once that he could leave without his absence being noticed. He could slip away at least a few moments before he felt obliged to return.

She needed to leave, and that was final.

He had barely stayed till the end of the story—he didn't think he could. There was something about it that made him feel increasingly uncomfortable, yet he couldn't put his finger down on exactly what that was. For the first time, Peter Pan was unsure of something, and that alone was enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

He dropped down, wind whistling around his feet as he landed on the tip of a tree and just stood there, listening. There was wind, bugs, birds even, to drown out the sound of that girl Marie's voice, but it seemed like nothing could. He could focus on nothing else, and somehow, though so, so far away, could still hear her. Her laugh, her words, and he didn't know why.

His eyes closed slowly, wishing for it to be morning already so he could send her off with the shadow. She absolutely couldn't be here—the shadow was wrong and he was right, like he always was. She couldn't fix anything; she'd only make it worse.

Snapping his eyes open again, he stared across the vast darkness of the Neverland. His eyes physically hurt; he hadn't slept in days. In fact, he didn't remember the last time he did sleep. He didn't need it as much as the other boys, or normal mortals, even, but he still needed it. He was a human being, and no matter how powerful he was or thought he was, it was beginning to wear on him.

He lifted off the tree top, his mind and heart heavy, and began to fly back to the group of boys. He pushed Marie's voice out of his head, pushed Marie herself and all the issues she was to bring out of his mind, and was able to fly a little easier.

Marie was still standing on the plank when he arrived back, though she was smiling and laughing at a few of the younger boys, who had told her something she thought remarkably funny, yet they thought made perfect sense.

"What do you mean, you can fly?" she asked, laughing lightly at them. She had always been told to be polite to younger boys and laugh along with them, because boys needed to have confidence instilled in them at a young age. But when twelve year old boys were telling you they could fly, she wondered if there was a time when you should tell them the truth—they couldn't fly.

"We can fly, all of us!" said a boy who looked about nine years old. He had pale skin and curly blonde hair and big front teeth like they had just grown in and didn't match the rest of his smile. "But Peter can best of all." He smiled at her again.

"How do you fly, then?" she asked, smiling back at him and playing along with their game.

"All you need is faith, trust and pixie dust!" said a by in his preteens, and he sounded like the boy who had taken her originally.

"Excuse me?" All these boys seemed to be under the impression that they could fly, something that astounded Marie. The truth had lived close to her since she was a child, like a next door neighbor to her heart. The people closest to her made sure that she never knew the myths that brought other children joy. With a lack of fairy tales, she found herself instead learning to believe in people themselves and all the good they could do. This was when she learned that reality was sometimes better than a fairy tale.

A voice interrupted her thoughts, sounding much like Peter, the boy who almost made her walk the plank. "You flew here, did you not?" She turned around to look at him, and he was smirking like he had when they first met.

"Well, yes, but that was something else." She smiled politely. "I cannot fly by myself, I would need an airplane or a bird to help me fly, or in this case, a shadow."

"Marie," said Peter, and she turned to face him and his upturned nose. "Anyone can fly in Neverland." When she lifted an eyebrow, he lifted himself off the ground and hovered in midair for a moment. She gaped at him, her eyes wide, and Peter had to admit he felt a certain amount of pride and pleasure at her astounded gaze. "If my shadow can fly, why can't I?"

"You're only a human, and a shadow is… Well, a shadow is just a shadow." She stared at him, trying to keep her voice from sounding too dumbstruck. "It's just a shadow, weightless and not really there."

"Have you no faith?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow at her and sneering at her.

"Only birds can fly naturally."

"The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply because they have perfect faith— for to have faith is to have wings." Marie opened her mouth to respond, but closed it, thinking about his words. Peter reached his hand down to her, his sneer fading into a knowing smile. "Do you have faith?" She slowly extended her arm to him, reaching out until her fingers were but inches from his.

Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a time that they have happened. This was one of those times, for both Marie and Peter, yet mostly Peter. Their fingers touched, and for the first time, Peter felt a rush of complete and utter trust from someone he'd known so shortly. Then, it seemed normal, and he grasped her hand and she gave her faith to him so easily, like young girls do when given the chance.

But what ceased to ever be normal after that time was that it was right then that he decided to let her stay.

**A/N: Another long wait, my utmost apologies, but I had to rewrite this chapter a few times because I wasn't happy with it. This chapter is long, eight pages in Word *wipes brow* and it took awhile because I'm lazy. Hopefully the next chapter will be coming along soon, but the plot is pretty shaky and uncertain from this point on, at least until the end **

**If you have any tips or suggestions for my story, my PM box is open, or feel free to leave a review!**

**Points to anyone who can spot the J.M. Barrie quotes!**

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	5. Canticum Sectator

Peter sat on his bed, shrouded in dim light from a candle sitting on the side of the room. Its light danced across the girl on the floor, with light hair splayed across the ground. She had fallen asleep there, lying on the dirt, after he had flown around for a little while whilst she watched.

She, obviously, could not fly, but she watched Peter for a long while do it in utter amazement. It seemed nothing could have taken the smile off of her face, and pride had taken over Peter completely.

He watched her for whatever reason, maybe because he wasn't used to being admired the way she admired him, or maybe because it had been so long since he'd been able to parade a treasure like her around, or maybe because she was beautiful and for some reason he couldn't help himself. But for whatever the reason, he stayed, and looked on.

The boys had grown bored of their new toy after a while and had gone back to dancing around the fire, but Peter had yet to tire of her. He had brought her back to his hideout originally so that he could yell at her for the horrible story she had told, and how if she was going to stay both he and the lost boys would expect more and that she should be lucky he allowed her to remain there. But he hadn't gotten a chance—he had left to find his pipes and come back with her asleep on the floor.

Admittedly, he was disappointed, because he'd wanted to brag to her a little more than he already had. Truly, he'd wanted to convince her to stay, but she seemed to already find herself at home on the bitter island. Again, the girl confused him. Even the lost boys seemed to take a while to get used to life on the island, but she was so willing to stay. He was bewildered, if we are being completely honest.

So Peter looked on at the girl Marie, genuinely baffled by her so much so that he didn't know what to do. So he slept. And for the first time in a very, very long time, he slept soundly, nightmares evading him on that night.

Marie awoke quite late, later than she was used to, but much earlier than every one of the boys. She stared at the ceiling of sticks and wondered vaguely where she was, until she remembered she was in the cabin Peter had brought her to the night before. She sat up and yawned, stretching out her arms and looking around. She was about to yell for someone when she saw Peter asleep on the bed, lying across it in the opposite way one might think to lay on a bed.

She frowned at him but stood up and looked across the small room, looking at its contents. It was about the size of her room back home, which wasn't even very big to begin with. There was some sort of blanket—oh, a deerskin flap—that covered the entrance of the small house and a makeshift fireplace that was really just a small hole with fire in it along the wall with a rug in front of it. She had fallen asleep on that rug.

Other than that, there was only his small bed, which looked like it was very hard and possibly made of straw or pine needles. Marie walked over to Peter's bed, staring down at him. She was suddenly no longer frightened by him at all—in slumber, he looked much less menacing and more like the young boy he was supposed to. Neverland, she knew, was a land where you never grew up. How had youth taken such a toll on the boy?

She quickly realized she was staring, and walked out of the small cabin and into the daylight. Looking up at the sun, she realized it must have been far past noon, for the sun was beginning to sink into the sky, and she felt her heart sink a little too from the waste of day. That was what was expected after staying out until the wee hours of the morning, flying around the forest and watching Peter do tricks and boast. She had only smiled in return, for that was what was polite and expected.

The fire still was full of hot and burning coals, so she walked over and sat by it. She was hungry, but didn't know who to ask without angering every boy in the area by waking them.

The Neverland was beautiful, she had to admit, but one night seemed to be enough. She was ready to go home, back to her mother and her mother's boyfriend, and live. It was wondrous, but tonight, she would ask Peter to take her home. A request which she was sure would be answered, because she was just a girl, and there seemed to be no use for her.

Peter had seemed upset by her story, for whatever reason, and she believed, no, she knew that the only reason he let her stay was because the boys thought him a hero for bringing a story teller to the island to entertain them. The younger boys seemed to appreciate her, but many of the older boys seemed untrusting and annoyed of her presence altogether.

She had liked them, though, but she liked most everyone she met. It was a strange quality in a person, but Marie found that she could get along with almost all people she met. If she was open with them, it was only a matter of time before they became open with you, too.

"You're awake?" She snapped away from the fire and towards the voice, which belonged to Peter, who was trailed by two boys. She smiled up at them, the sun's glare in her eyes, but they did not smile back.

"Yes, I was waiting for you to wake up," she said tentatively, and began to stand up. Peter motioned for her to stay down and dismissed the boys, sitting down next to her. He stared at her, and in turn Marie stared into the fire.

"I meant to tell you this last night, but you fell asleep before I could." Peter's tone held a certain tone of malice that hadn't been there the night before, but Marie paid no mind to it.

"Well, what is it? Peter frowned at her, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't like your story last night."

"I know."

"How could you possibly know? I hadn't told you yet."

"That's the thing about faces, Peter. You can tell what someone is thinking just by looking at them." Marie looked at him—eyebrow cocked and a dissatisfied smirk on his face. "There's something called a poker face—maybe you should consider using one."

"Consider it yourself, girl," he spat, his tone nasty. "Before Neverland steals all your secrets."

"I'm sure it already has," she said quietly, and though Peter knew she didn't mean it literally, it still bothered him. "Now, what sort of stories do you want? Or any at all?"

Peter considered this, staring at the ground for a moment. He didn't really know specifically what sort of stories one might tell, seeing as he never had them. It was just a fact to them that girls told good stories, and Marie proved that correct. He looked up at her and shrugged. She laughed lightly and rolled her eyes, making Peter cross his eyebrows at her.

"You must know what types of stories you want to hear."

"Watch your tongue, or I'll have the shadow take you back."

"It's not like I would mind."

"What?" He looked at her, a frown deep on his face.

"I wouldn't mind going home." She shrugged at him, a carefree look on her face. Peter stared at the girl in confusion—he was sure, _so sure_ that she'd wanted to stay, so he could use it against her. It made sense for her to be on the island—she just seemed… unloved. Like the other boys, she came so easily to the island, so _willingly_, and now she wanted to leave?

"I mean, I can stay a little longer, but I'm going to have to go home sometime." She smiled at him lightly. "Perhaps tonight would work well?"

"Why would you want to go home?" he asked in utter disbelief. She frowned at him, turning her head to the side.

"Well, why wouldn't I?" she said, and for a moment, a ghost of a smile graced her face. "It's my home—that's where I belong."

"Home?" Peter scoffed, grinning wildly and looking away. She knew nothing of _home._ "Don't you know you aren't loved at home?" Marie looked taken aback by his statement, and standing up suddenly seemed like a better option that sitting so she could walk away. Discomfort was sure to follow in whatever happened next.

"Of course I'm loved at home," she said, but through her smile, she thought back to it. Was she, really?

Unbenounced to Marie, Peter pulled out his pipes as she stared at the ground. Though he refused to accept this in the front of his mind, the part accessed most often and most often believed, in the back of his mind, he knew he had a problem with pride. After so many years of being in command, being the king of the Neverland, no one could just _leave._ And, if their storyteller, _his_ storyteller, truly decided to leave, what was he to tell the boys? The older boys didn't care, but the younger ones would be angry with him, something that usually didn't bother him. But this anger would be a question of his power—or worse, his standing—if he just let someone leave.

"Marie, have you ever heard _Canticum Sectator_?" he asked, bringing her out of her brief stupor. She frowned at the name. It was in Latin, or that's what it sounded like, but she didn't recognize the words in it.

"No, I'm afraid not." Peter only smiled, lifting the pipes to his lips in a way Marie thought very curious and slightly malicious.

"Then I shall play it for you," he said, and began to blow into the pipes. Marie sat, listening, as Peter blew out notes only himself seemed to be able to hear. Marie wondered if this was like the plank he had imagined her to be on, so she closed her eyes and opened her ears, trying to hear the music.

"I'm—" she began, swallowing thickly. She didn't want to disappoint him, but then, it didn't seem like she had a choice. "I'm sorry, I can't hear anything." He paused, his lips still pursed to play more of the silent song. Peter let his pipes drop slowly onto his crisscrossed legs, staring at Marie with a fixated stare that made her squirm.

"You will," he said, a grin spreading on his face. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

**A/N: This chapter is boring and uneventful, sorry, and the next one probably will be too! I'm very out of ideas until we hit the actual middle of this story, so hey, if anyone has any contributions or anything they want to see happen, that would be greatly appreciated :D. (Canticum Sectator means "the song of the follower" if anyone was wondering)**

**If you have any tips or suggestions for my story, my PM box is open, or feel free to leave a review!**

**Points to anyone who can spot the J.M. Barrie quotes!**

**Please Enjoy, Wren Love.**


	6. Discipline

"She then pricked her finger upon that spindle, while under the spell Maleficent had cast. She was doomed to sleep forever until an act of true love awoke her." Marie grinned at the few boys standing and sitting around her, most staring at her eagerly. Only one of the older boys was there, leaning against a tree, nonchalantly listening to her story. Probably placed there by Peter to make sure she didn't corrupt the younger boys with inappropriate stories.

Not like she would, anyways.

"So she laid there, for a hundred years, until, finally, a prince heard of the sleeping Beauty." Marie told the boys of how the prince chopped down all the thorns and defeated Maleficent, and awakened Princess Aurora with true loves kiss.

"Another!" Before the boys could even comprehend the ending, the youngest one laughed gaily with his request. Marie smiled at him and the rest of the boys. Their ages ranged from about eight to eighteen, all with dirt smudged on their faces and stuck under their short nails, probably there to stay for the rest of their lives. Strangely, all of them seemed to hold a hollow look in their eyes, even when they smiled and laughed. It seemed as if no matter what they did, happiness evaded them like a shadow at midday.

Of course, sitting in front of her were only boys around eight to twelve, maybe thirteen, by the looks of it. The few other boys, about six or seven of them, seemed dispersed around the camp and outside in the woods. Marie wondered how such young boys would feel so unloved as to come to Neverland. That is why they were there—weren't they?

"Another?" she asked, laughing at the boy. "I just told one!"

"But we want another!" She grinned at them, but they seemed not to return her smile. All of them except the smallest one seemed to distrust her as if she was some sort of exploding time bomb, yet they all sat around her, listening to her stories, if barely. She felt like she was already being taken for granted, and it was her second night.

"I think we'll have to wait for tomorrow night," she said calmly, and immediately the smile dropped from the small boy's face. Their heads all turned to her, eyes on eyes, their full attention to her now that she had disobeyed an order from one of the boys.

"You will tell them another one," said the boy leaning against the tree, the oldest one. She stared at him, frowning with parted lips. He had thick, bushy eyebrows that covered part of his eyes, making him look angry at her, even though she figured that was probably how he was feeling anyway.

"I'm sorry, but we'll have another story tomorrow night," Marie said in a sharper tone, one used by the teachers where Marie was from. One of the younger boys furrowed his brow at her and the older one scoffed. She felt glares from the boys all around her, and confusion clouded her mind. It was only a story; surely they could wait a single night before they heard another one!

"Peter will be angry," said the boy who was originally her captor.

"Well, I don't care if Peter will be angry. That doesn't really affect me." They all looked at one another, making eye contact like it was some private joke Marie wasn't a part of. Anyone could have felt the tension that suddenly overtook the clearing.

"It affects everyone here," said another boy with blond hair. "Pan _is_ Neverland, haven't you figured that out by now?" Marie began to respond, but then paused. It made sense, actually, so much so that what the boy said earlier began to worry her. Would he really be angry with her for not telling them another story?

"Boys." There was a silence of the murmurs of the boys as they all turned to look up at the boy who spoke. Marie snapped her head in the direction of the voice as well, and stared upon Peter Pan, who was dropping onto the ground lightly with an almost sinister smile on his face that Marie found extremely uncomforting.

Peter had been, unbeknownst to anyone, sitting in the tree above Marie's head and listening to her story. It wasn't a particularly good one, really, but it brought him a small joy to sit and listen to her talk. She was excellent with her words, Peter would give her that.

The boys all stood up, staring at Peter with their hands by their sides. Marie backed up a little, pushing her light blonde hair behind her ear and she stared at him with wide eyes. Peter looked her up and down one time, seeing she was still sporting some sort of loose trousers that any lady he knew would never wear, and a black shirt without sleeves with a low neck that looked like a V. His last statement still stood, and he kept glancing at her chest for a reason he didn't quite understand.

"I hear there is a bit of trouble going on here," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back on his heels. Almost all the boys looked toward Marie, who shrunk back slightly, her face turning red even in the dim light of the torches surrounding camp.

"Our storyteller is faulty," said Graham, leaning against the tree. As Peter looked around, he saw no sign of the older boys and Felix, which annoyed more than worried him. Peter turned his gaze back to Marie, whose pretty eyes were wide with anxiety, her hands shaking and clenched at her sides. Peter rolled his eyes and clenched his teeth at her incapability to handle anything remotely questioning her safety. She was weak, and that bothered him more than anything. But she was easy to scare, and fun to scare, so he didn't mind it as much.

"Is there something wrong with your storytelling, Miss Marie?" Peter asked, knowing full and well what the problem was. He smirked to himself—he just wanted to see her squirm.

"I—" she stuttered. "I'm not the one at fault here, or, well, I shouldn't be, because they were—" she paused, looking Peter in the eyes. She set her jaw and stared at him as his smirk grew wider and he let out a laugh. Her eyes narrowed at him, and so he laughed again. He looked around at the boys; his eyes alight with a spark one can only find in Neverland, and only from Peter Pan. He stared at them, lifting his hands up in good humor—at least, in good humor of the boys. Marie stared at him, a frown out of place on her kind and gentle face. Her eyes, usually like calm pools of water, heated up as the boys began laughing at her. The boys' laughter grew louder as she turned to walk away from the group.

"Where _are_ you going, Marie?" Peter asked in a mocking tone, making Marie pause in her tracks. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore him; she had always been taught it was almost always best to walk away from a situation like this. But Peter just made it so hard—his immature sense of humor, and, well, sense of _life_ was more obnoxious than anything she had ever encountered.

"I'm going home, Peter," she said, glaring at him. He raised his eyebrows with a smirk.

"No one leaves Neverland without my permission."

"Then I'm sure you'll have no problem granting it." She pursed her lips as Peter laughed loudly again, but it trailed off slowly like the dripping of water from a sink faucet.

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm _faulty_," she said, rather plainly, in fact, which made Peter grin.

"That's only the opinion of one boy, though." He turned to Graham, who was chuckling along with the other boys until he met Peter's gaze. "Now, Graham, you _did_ call our lovely storyteller _faulty_, am I correct?" Graham nodded slowly and Peter shook his head at them. "Whatever made you call her this?"

"She was—"

"Oh, I forgot!" said Peter with a certain amount of joy and an atrocious smile. "I do not care!" His eyes met Marie's, who was standing quite rigidly and very uncomfortably. Peter walked a few steps forward, his eyes wide with a wicked glint that terrified Marie. "What should his punishment be?" There was a small gulp from the boys, mostly from Graham, as Peter advanced upon Marie, still.

"I don't think—"

"Silence, Graham." Peter didn't break eye contact with Marie. Her mouth was open in panic, her eyes mirrors of dread. "You don't see criminals choosing their fate in the real world, do you?" This statement puzzled Marie and many of the lost boys, because Neverland was something quite different than the real world in more ways than one. Peter cleared this up for everyone when he added, "Well, we must play by Miss Marie's rules for now, because she is our _guest_." Marie inhaled sharply, chewing on her lip as she debated as to whether or not she should break eye contact with Peter.

"I, um," Marie began quietly, before Peter interrupted her.

"Speak up, girl, so we can hear you!"

"There's no need for punishment!" she all but yelled, and very quickly, annoying Peter more than he liked to admit. She glared at him, and at Graham, but of course she refused to have anything to do with the torture of people. "I… I don't want him punished."

"Why not?" Peter asked, tilting his head. "He _did_ wrong you."

"But did he, really?" she responded, staring at the boys. Graham, most of all, looked pleasantly confused at the whole ordeal, while Peter only looked utterly bothered by the girl. "I mean, he just called me faulty, which is no worse than I've called myself."

"Why would you call yourself bad things?" asked a boy, and she had to hold in an eye roll in order to be polite.

"It's called self deprecation," she said, turning back to Peter. "Which I'm sure none of you know anything about because you're so damn conceited!"

There was a period of silence that seemed a lot longer than it really was. Marie immediately regretted what she said, but she knew she couldn't take it back, so she stood her ground until Peter became more than angry with her, which was bound to happen at some point.

Peter set his jaw, his eyes harsh and angry, directed straight at her. "So you don't want them hurt, you say," he said, his voice hard and steely. Marie didn't respond, but Peter just smiled. "Graham, why don't you come over here and meet our storyteller." Immediately, the boy Graham walked over and was in front of her, staring her down with small dark eyes. Peter grinned.

"Marie, meet the boy who called you faulty." Marie looked up at him, and realized how tall he really was—much taller than Peter, with reddish brown hair and a big nose. He glared at her; at least it looked like he did, with his low set eyebrows and small eyes. Peter stared at the two of them, in a way he knew made Marie uncomfortable. "What do you think of that?"

"It's fine, really, it isn't a big—"

"Why, on the contrary, I believe it is a _very_ big deal, don't you think so, Graham?" Peter stared at him with an amused look on his face, and Graham stood his ground, his mouth in a tight line. "Graham? Would you like to tell us how you feel?" Marie ground her teeth, glaring at Peter with eyes like fire, but he wouldn't look at her. He was trying to humiliate him, Graham, and she was going to be the target of his anger. Peter needed to stop.

"I don't care." Graham's voice was monotone and surprisingly hid his obvious anger very well.

"I think you do," said Peter, taking a step towards the tall boy. It confused Marie, once again, how Peter could have so much authority on this island while not really having the physical power to back himself up. That was the way it worked where she had lived, at least, so she never tried to get herself in trouble. The idea that this skinny teenager held power over these boys would have made her laugh if it wasn't a dangerous situation. "I think you're very angry at her, because if she wasn't here, then you wouldn't be so humiliated right now." Peter stared him down, and then tilted his head back with a smirk. "Am I right?"

"Well, if that stupid bitch hadn't—"

"Now, now, no name calling," Peter scolded playfully, but his eyes were hard.

"Why is she here, Peter!" he yelled, staring at Peter. "She's a girl, she doesn't belong—she never has. Why are you keeping her here?"

"I have my reasons."

"No you don't! You keep bringing worthless shit like this to the island," he grabbed Marie's shoulder, hauling her over aggressively. She yelped as his strong fingers bit into her shoulder, tight enough on her skin to leave marks. "You're going to lose your position. We need to survive here, Peter. We don't need a _storyteller_. What we do need is a new leader." There was a pause in his words, like Graham was about to go on, before he lapsed into a full silence.

Marie, who was trying to slowly twist her way out of Graham's grasp, felt his hold on her loosen. She quickly sprung out of it, holding her shoulder and staring at him. His eyes had grown wide, and she followed his gaze to a stone cold stare from Peter. She felt herself move back, cringing herself against his gaze, even if it wasn't directly at her. The other boys felt it, too. The entire clearing was silent—even the bugs had stopped making their noises.

"Maybe, what we need," began Peter, his voice low and hard. He relaxed—his entire being radiated an immense and dangerous calm, which terrified Marie almost as much as his anger did. Peter was not just some boy that she thought he was. He was something completely different. "Is a little bit of discipline." He smiled at Graham, but his smile was bitter. She realized what he was the moment he spoke, with a voice like the edge of a blade. "Didn't you know, Graham? Hurting ladies is bad form." Peter Pan was a _monster_.

**A/N: THIS CHAPTER. It took me forever to write for absolutely no reason at all—it really hasn't changed much since I originally wrote it, but I kept pouring over it for little mistakes and mishaps. Frankly, I'm annoyed I didn't post it earlier because I absolutely hate this chapter now. So, I'm sorry if the wait was a bit long, the next chapters will probab****ly be a bit quicker because *yeah* summer is here, and I have a ton of time on my hands. **

**If you have any tips or suggestions for my story, my PM box is open, or feel free to leave a review!**

**Points to anyone who can spot the J.M. Barrie quotes!**

**Please Enjoy, Wren Love.**


	7. Pity

She was next to him the entire day, but in all her attempts to shield him from the sun, his skin still managed to turn a bright red. She gave him sips of water that he succumbed to drinking after hours of arrogant refusal, and, for a reason unknown to her as well as the boy she so diligently cared for, brought him food and comfort.

Peter had tied Graham to the base of a tree and sentenced him to a day boiling in the sun without food or drink (which didn't dissuade Marie from helping him anyway), along with the threat of "dealing with him later." Though everyone expected something horrible, no one knew exactly what Peter had in store for the poor lost boy.

And so Marie sat with Graham, as the cold morning turned into scorching hot midday and then a cooler afternoon. He protested for the first few hours, the first many hours, really, until he realized that despite his best efforts, Marie would refuse to leave. She was that kind of person, he'd realized, the sort of good that's strangely rare, a good Graham hadn't seen in a long time. There certainly wasn't any sort of people like that in Neverland.

When she asked about the boys, Graham was unsure of how to answer. His skin was burning, and though his anger had dissipated at the girl, he still didn't really trust her. But they were alone in the clearing Peter had placed him in, and he couldn't really get into much more trouble than he was already in now.

So he told her everything, from the first lost boys to the ones they had then, and how they fluctuated based on their skills and what Peter required at the time. He replaced every one he killed, so most of the veteran boys weren't surprised when Peter disappeared with a boy and two days later, a new one showed up. Graham also told her that he expected to die, but she only gave him a bleak smile and told him she wouldn't let Peter kill someone.

"Why are you doing this?" They hadn't spoken in awhile—Marie was dabbing the skin with cold water from her fingers and letting it drip down his face for a cooling affect that she wasn't sure even worked. He was tied with some sort of unbreakable bond to the tree, so the sun could hit him at every point, no matter where he or the sun rotated. Marie had tried to break him out of his prison, even loosen his bonds, but nothing worked. So she stayed with him.

"What?" Marie was in a sort of trance, dripping the water down his skin, hoping it was soothing. He hadn't told her otherwise, so she took it as a good sign.

"Why are you doing this," he said again, his hoarse voice making the question a statement. She stopped for a moment, and looked into his eyes. He no longer looked angry—only sad and pitiful. Marie tried not to pity him, but she couldn't help herself.

"I'm doing it because I want to," she replied, and offered him another sip of water. He shook his head. "Don't get dehydrated, it'll only make everything worse."

"Why do you _want_ to do this?" he asked, and she frowned.

"Must kindness always have a reason behind it?"

"Well, usually _kindness _comes with some sort of price." He looked at her, but she didn't meet his eyes. "Like magic."

"Well, surprisingly, kindness isn't magic, though on this wretched island, I'm beginning to think it is." She stopped dripping water on him for a moment, closing her eyes. The sun went temporarily behind a cloud, and she herself finally had a break from the sun. The skin around her shoulders that wasn't blocked by her tank top was turning pink, and she was sure she would have a peeling sunburn by the time she was subjected to darkness once more.

"I just don't understand why you're being so kind to me after I was so rude to you."

"_Rude_ is a _pleasant_ way of putting it," she said with a wry smirk, and met his eyes. He didn't look angry—he looked regretful, and actually very apologetic. Marie didn't buy it for a second. "You were a huge ass." Graham let out a short, raspy laugh, shaking his head and turning away. Marie motioned for him to drink again, so he did, and drained the rest of the water.

"Thank you." He smiled at her—she really was lovely to look at, and he supposed he knew why Peter was keeping her around. He doubted Pan would keep her for the reasons he himself would, but it definitely wasn't just her storytelling. As she walked away to get more water from the bucket he had recently drained, he watched her, and knew for certain that Peter was keeping her there for more reasons than one.

"Graham, you look rather _crimson_." A voice interrupted his thoughts, and he snapped his head in the direction of the sound. His dry lips parted for a moment as he laid eyes on Pan walking toward him with a confident, cocky stride. Graham had failed to realize that, though it was still light, the sun had disappeared from the sky and the trees had begun casting their shadows. He wondered how long Marie had been gone, because he was positive that it was still sunny while she was there.

Peter stared down at Graham with a cruel smile, tilting his head so that he could stare at Graham face to face. "Where's your little dove now?" Graham stared forward, refusing to make eye contact with the boy. That's all he was, a boy, an immature, insolent, little boy, and it astounded him that no one else managed to see that. He didn't care if he died knowing it—at least he would die not living a lie.

Marie was walking back into the clearing with a fresh pail of water when she witnessed Graham somehow managing to turn to face the other way, his red, bare back facing Peter. It wasn't Peter's hand up, somehow moving him into that position, or the stretched and bloody skin of Graham as he twisted and his bones threatened to snap inside him. It was his screams.

"PETER!" The scream was louder than it was meant to be, but it got his attention. Marie's eyes were full of horror at the scene in front of her, but Peter couldn't stop. "Peter, stop this, please!" She wouldn't cry—she couldn't cry, but her hands were instinctively covering her gaping mouth as he twisted and twisted, his yells getting louder with each inch he moved. "Stop it, now!"

"Okay," he said, smiling despite himself. She stared at him in disbelief, and he dropped his hand, leaving Graham turned over with his back facing them. It was red beyond belief, tender, too, and Peter smiled. Graham let out a gasp of relief, and collapsed by the tree. "But to stop this, I'll have to start something else."

"Peter, stop it, please!" She ran over to him, her face creased with distain. "You said I could choose his punishment!"

"I asked you your opinion."

"Please don't hurt him anymore." Her eyes were huge, tears at the edges and a plea, so many pleas in the reflection of her eyes. Peter shrugged and moved off into the woods.

"What's it to you?"

"I—" she hesitated, looking past him at Graham. Peter stopped walking to turn towards her, and followed her gaze. Graham was breathing heavily, strangled gasps coming out as his back moved up and down with each heave. Peter looked back at Marie and saw pity. In her eyes, in her stature, in her hands. She had dropped that pail of water she was using for who knows what, and her hands were by her mouth, covering it as if she was about to scream.

This frustrated Peter—no one _pitied_ the lost boys. _Pity_ was something unknown to them as soon as they arrived in Neverland, because they weren't pitiful. They were strong and they were tough and they were unbreakable—but by the screams that Graham had just expelled; that wasn't an act of a lost boy. He _was _pitiful. And any act of pity towards one of his lost boys was a direct act of pity towards _him_.

Peter smiled, a plan forming like tiny webs spreading across his mind. He smiled because, even though Graham was emitting cries across the clearing, he was only doing damage to himself. Graham was no longer a lost boy. And, in the boyish, prideful mind of Peter, the worst punishment was not death—it was pity.

Peter took off once more into the woods, a gruesome smile wide on his face, and Marie stumbled after him.

"Peter, wait!" she yelled, her high voice ringing through his ears. He kept walking, trying to find the one he wanted, one that would snap and bend but never break. "Please, Peter, stop this!" He ignored her, knowing full and well she wouldn't be able to catch up with him if he walked at this pace.

She was right behind him, about to grab his shoulder, in fact, when he stopped abruptly and she ran into him. Peter muttered a few choice curse words as he stumbled forward.

"I'm sor—"

"Marie." Peter began to turn around, his annoyance with her plain on his face. She was such a nuisance, and Peter was about to shout at her for it when he met her eyes.

The fact that her eyes were a peculiar shade of brown, very light and clear looking, was the first thing he noticed. There was a ray of sun coming down right above them, glinting off her face and casting shadows by her nose and eyelids. But her brown eyes were full of hope, full of mercy and pleas and he was struck suddenly by how much good she stood for. And then he realized that there was never sunlight in this part of the forest, and why was it shining on her, of all people?

"Peter?" she asked, and he realized he had been staring at her for longer than deemed appropriate. He blinked and looked away, dropping his hands that he had unknowingly placed on her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Stop apologizing," he said, but his voice was quieter and held less authority than he meant it to. She opened her mouth, probably to apologize, but closed it with a small smile, despite her situation. Peter wanted to turn away from her, but he didn't. He just stood there while Marie talked.

Once again she asked him to let Graham go, to just forget anything happened, and she offered herself to be punished instead. Stupid girl. But Peter let her talk because he liked the sound of her voice and suddenly it was all he wanted to hear, even if she was rambling.

But he couldn't let Graham live—not after what he'd done.

Marie stared at him, awaiting an answer. She felt like she had been talking nonstop into an empty void, because Peter was looking at the ground and not at her. She was thinking that maybe she'd been wrong, maybe he wasn't a monster, that she was too quick to judge, when he met her eyes again. They were filled with the fury they had been minutes ago, before she had began talking to him, and her face fell.

He turned around roughly, bending over and grabbing a long, flexible looking stick. Marie walked toward him, staring at it. She felt her stomach drop as he held up the stick and inspected it, flicking it out like a whip. "Peter, don't—"

"You do not tell me what to do!" he shouted at her, his face creased with a childish anger as he pushed past her. Marie was taken aback as he stormed through the forest, leaving her behind and helpless.

For some reason, this disappointed Marie. She let herself fall to the ground, while a subtle realization crawled its way into her mind. She had let both of them down; Peter and Graham, and she didn't know what to do. She'd tried to reason with him but Peter didn't listen, and he had walked back there with that stick, maybe to let Graham go—

Though as much as that thought filled her with hope, another one pooled dread in her stomach. What must have been a lashing stick, Graham's position, with his back out to the woods. She stood up, feeling dizzy, and sprinted after Peter, following the trail of crushed leaves.

**A/N: This… ehe… took a bit longer than usual because I procrastinated, and also because we left of vacation and I haven't seen nor heard of any available wifi. So, here it is, finally, and *hopefully* the next chapter will be out soon. **


	8. A Lashing, A Licking

"PETER!"

She knew he can hear her cries, he must—this was _his_ island. But he didn't acknowledge it if he could, and Marie was left tearing through the brush to try to find him. The stick he carried, she was angrier at herself than him—how could she not have realized Peter meant to lash Graham? The signs were all there, it was so painfully obvious, and she'd let it slip between her teeth.

Marie let out another cry, this one catching in her throat, as she began to breathe heavily. She had followed him a long way into the woods, and sprinting it back was not something she had planned on ever doing.

She knew he was evil. She knew he was cruel, and terrible, and why had she trusted him because he was a horrible human being and she knew he would do something like this. She cursed herself, tears threatening to spring in her eyes, and all she could think was _why was she so trusting_? This could have been avoided, it could have, and it was all her fault.

_But there must be good in him_, she thought, _for he allowed me to stay here. He kept me alive. _

Foolish hope ignited in her, hope she knew _absolutely_ was foolish, but could not shake it. No matter what he did, there was good in him—she had to believe it. There was good in everyone, even in the darkest of people.

She then burst into the clearing, nearly tripping over herself as she stopped to observe the scene. She had been gone for a maximum of twenty minutes, perhaps twenty five, if she was being generous, and all the Lost Boys were gathered in a crude circle around Graham, who was struggling to escape his binds to the tree.

Marie yelled Peter's name, and he turned to her, surprise on his face. He met her stare from a ways away, a grin not present on his face. He wanted her to feel pity for the boy, when Graham's back was a tablecloth of blood over his body, and he wanted her to watch the light drain from his eyes. She was going to leave then—and he would gladly take her home. She would have no innocence, no trust, and her use would be done here. If she was going to force even more boys to revolt against him, to question his reign, Peter wanted her gone—he needed her gone.

She was running forward, but he forced the image out of his brain and turned to Graham. His back had already begun to peel from the sun, and Peter relished in what pain he was going to cause him. His cries would light the area like fire; his screams would cloud it like smoke—

"PETER!" She was yelling again, and his fingers weakened, fumbling with the stick as he raised it above his head. "Peter, you don't have to do this!"

He had to do this.

"Stop it! Peter, stop!"

He couldn't stop.

"Peter, _please_!" Marie yelled at him, but a Lost Boy held her arms in his hands, and though she struggled in vain, she could not get free. She cried out to him again, but it was too late.

She heard the first crack of the whip like thunder, followed by a groan and gasp of Graham's. She yelped loudly, stopping her struggle. She watched as a red mark, long and peppered with blood, began to rise on Graham's back. She felt light headed, suddenly, as if she was watching the scene fold out in slow motion.

Peter's hand reached back again, and the whip fell upon Graham's back once more. Marie was filled with dread, terror, for this poor boy that had barely done anything but challenge Peter. She pulled forward, slowly, against the boy, staring at the scene before her. This was her doing—her fault, and she knew it. Maybe if she had just told that story…

And she fell onto her knees.

It was her fault. Hers. Peter reminded himself of this as he swung again at Graham. A third time. Then a fourth. A fifth.

He usually stopped at five for the boys if they did something wrong—any good stick would give them a good bleed, but his hands carried him further, his mind sinking into a deeper level of anger. Her fault, her fault, her fault.

She never should have come—this was no place for a girl. Peter knew the ways of boys, of men—but not of girls. Not of Marie. Girls, he realized, with another lash, could stir up trouble by doing barely anything. His lost boys caused trouble physically—Marie could cause it mentally, which was much more dangerous to Peter, for he had absolutely no idea how to contain and control it.

Peter tried to block her out, focus on what he was doing, but her screams behind him made his stomach, his heart, his mind lurch with regret. No, not regret. Anger. He was mad at her, so, so _angry_ with her, because it was her who caused this. He knew he was right all along, and he wanted to scream in frustration as he snapped the whip against Graham's back even harder than before.

A small, very, very tiny compartment in the back of Peter's mind whispered to him that he was wrong. Even Peter, even in his childish state of mind and manner, had his boundaries. This was one of them, and he had crossed it. But he pushed that away, and pushed Marie's cries behind him as well. They were quieter, now, or was it only his mind?

He whipped Graham, again, again, again, but his mind was on her. She was truly infuriating, and he hadn't realized before this how much he absolutely _d_e_spised _her—

But he didn't. And with this realization suddenly his vision was blurred and all he could hear was the cracking sound of the stick as it hit Graham's back, his cries long silenced with unconsciousness, and the whoosh as he drew it back.

As much as he tried to hate the kind girl who only tried to help, he couldn't hate her. And that made him angry, because never _once_ had he ever had he ever _not _had control of his feelings. He would hate her if he wanted to—yet he found that he did not.

The sound of his whip became a rhythm, a melody, something for him to capture in his mind and focus solely on _that. _It was a steady beat, something constant, something to hold on to as his mind whirred with feelings of anger and hate, mostly at himself. Everything was different suddenly, because of this stupid girl who had come and ruined everything and had been here for less than twenty four hours!

And then her face was right in front of him, in his mind, he thought, but it wasn't in his mind.

Before he knew what he was doing the whip came out upon her face, leaving a bloody gash down the side of her beautiful face, blood seeping to the top. And all he could see were her eyes.

If you've ever been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again. This is how Peter felt as he stared at Marie, her brown eyes wide and filled with a sense of betrayal. He saw the blood begin to drip down her face, but he could only stare at her eyes.

_Monster._

It was just a breath, barely a whisper, so quiet he wasn't even sure she said it, but then she was gone, disappearing into the forest on nimble legs into the dark forest, no light shining behind her.

Peter stared after her, unable to move, unable to process what had just happened. She had called him a monster.

And the worst part was, he knew she was right.

**A/N: Family road trip is getting in the way of my updates, I'm so sorry! Luckily these past few days have been driving days, and I got to write a lot, so I'm happy for that. I'm sorry this chapter is short, but the next chapter will either be longer or split into two different chapters, I haven't decided. A long talk between the two so we can finally have some development! Thank you so much for reading!**

**If you have any tips or suggestions for my story, my PM box is open, or feel free to leave a review!**

**Points to anyone who can spot the J.M. Barrie quotes!**

**Please Enjoy, Wren Love.**


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